


A Diversion

by Galadriel1010



Series: Birthday Prompts [19]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Storms, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: A storm forces Holmes and Watson, along with their fellow travellers, to find shelter for the night in a small village. The only room available to them for the night has a single bed, right up at the top of the building. For that one night, the storm is their refuge.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Birthday Prompts [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862779
Comments: 1
Kudos: 63





	A Diversion

It was a wild October when we picked up a trail leading us north to York in search of a notorious jewel thief. Holmes had taken the case out of curiosity, I’m sure, having no fondness for the high-handed attitude of our client nor any need for the money. All of London was alight with excitement at the string of burglaries that had laced across the capital like pearls, every dinner party conversation turned to theories, every club became a criminologists’ society. The obvious candidates could all provide alibis for at least some of the thefts, Inspector Lestrade told us, and it was clear that the crimes were all committed by the same person. Holmes had simply smiled and agreed with him, and then burst out laughing as soon as he was on the street outside.

Two days after Inspector Lestrade’s visit we received a second visit – or rather more than second, for everyone in London seemed to want to call on the great detective for his opinion but it was the second of note – from Lord Anthony Thornaby. He confided in us his suspicions – nay, his certainty – that the thief was heading for York and from there to other locations around the north of England for something of a working holiday. If we pursued him, he assured us, we would surely catch him in the act. He offered us a significant sum to prove his theory, and informed us that he had already arranged our train to York and booked us into the grand station hotel there for our first night.

The weather, however, conspired against us and Lord Thornaby, and we were only a few miles north of Peterborough when the train came to an abrupt halt that shook luggage from the racks and set children off crying. Holmes and I sprang into action, only to find that our enemy was beyond even our skills. The gale had blown a tree onto the line, and in its toppling had brought with it a great weight of earth and rocks, enough to block the line completely. Workmen were already at the site and assured us that the line would be clear by morning, but with the light drawing in fast and the storm closing in, we were left with a simple choice between staying on the train or making the trek across country to the nearest village, just visible on the horizon in the dying light. We chose the latter not so much for our own sakes, as we would have been quite comfortable staying in our compartment for the night even with the noise, but to accompany the fearful women and girls who could not stay in such a place.

Thus it was that we found ourselves tramping through the edges of fields, clothes caught on briars and brambles, led by a lantern held by one of the guards, with another bringing up the rear behind us. I held a lantern in one hand myself, and with the other an umbrella to shelter one of my fellow passengers, and followed close behind Holmes. By the time we reached the village, such as it was, it was fully dark, and the bright, warm glow of the lantern outside the inn guided us in quite safely. Inside the guard told our story to the landlord, and such a fuss was created. Anyone in the inn who had a spare room or bed went home to prepare it, and those who didn’t went to knock up their neighbours and find space for us. The inn itself had only four rooms, three of which were large enough for families to room together, and once we had seen everyone else safely settled in room or, in some cases, inside the church with blankets and warm clothes, Holmes caught my elbow and guided me back towards the inn. “The landlord has been good enough to set the smaller room aside for our use,” he told me quietly. “For once I will allow some advantage to celebrity.”

The landlord in question looked almost alarmed as we approached, however. “Begging your pardon, sirs, but that room has only one bed.”

I was about to protest that I would take the floor, having faced worse in Afghanistan, or a chair, but Holmes waved both of our concerns away airily and turned a bright smile on me. “Nonsense. Doctor Watson and I are quite accustomed to having to share smaller quarters than this during our work together.” He caught my eye and I understood his meaning and was glad of the darkness to cover my blushing and faint alarm. “No, it is more than enough that you have saved us a trudge back across the fields with the guards, and we cannot convey our gratitude adequately.”

“Well then, I shall show you to your room. And may I say what an honour it is to have the great Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson here under our roof!”

He continued chattering as he led us through the inn and up a narrow set of stairs, past the first landing and up again to the very eaves of the building. Our small room was the only one on that floor, and it was small indeed. The pitch of the roof left only a small space where Holmes could stand up fully, and the single bed was tucked in underneath the slope, with the other side stacked nearly with chests and boxes that suggested it was used more for staff than for guests. The landlord lit another lantern for us and assured us that he would wake us if there was any news of the train and left us to our devices. I had reached for the curtains and his footsteps had retreated past the first landing when Holmes’s long fingers closed around my wrist and stopped me. “Let us leave the curtains for now,” he told me, drawing me back towards him. “It will be a wild storm tonight, and I should like to see it.”

Heat flickered through me and my eyes flickered to the bed. We were accustomed to discretion and deceit, that to have such an opportunity thrust upon us like this sent me nearly giddy with desire. The door was locked behind us, the storm wild around us and growing wilder, and Holmes’s long, slender fingers had crept up under the cuff of my shirt already. I nodded wordlessly, not trusting myself to speak, but removed my hand from his grasp to begun the work of undressing him. We stripped ourselves of our mud-spattered trousers and coats, discarding them carelessly, and were barely more gentle with the rest of our clothes. They would have to do for breakfast, and once on the train and reunited with our luggage we could change and be presentable for our delayed arrival into York. All of that was a distant concern, however, compared with the heat of his hands on my skin, the sweet softness of his mouth on mine, and the desperately contented noises he made when my hands touched him. We fairly tumbled into the bed, pressed together by the narrow width and drawn together by our desperate need for intimacy. For a while we lay tangled together, so close that there was barely an inch of us not touching and I could feel his need for me as clearly as he could surely feel mine for him. A trip out of the capital could have seen us riven from each other until back within the safety of 221B, but the storm had granted us one more night, and if it was to rage all night then who would question if we seemed tired at breakfast still?

I gasped against him as his clever hand wrapped around both of us, and then again when lightning seared the room, revealing his half-closed eyes and desperate expression to me for just a moment. The thunder rolled over us barely a moment later, the storm right above us now, and he rose above me, resting between my legs and staring down at me. When the lightning came again I caught a glimpse of the look of wonder on his face before we were plunged once more into the darkness and the thunder muffled my cry when his hips rolled against mine. We ground against each other in the darkness, desperate and wanton, and after he came across me he took me into his mouth and I followed soon after with thunder in my ears and his name on my lips.

“Sherlock.”

A name whispered only in darkness, into the space between us, stolen and treasured with more care than any cracksman. I pressed it to his shoulder as a caress, and let the weight of his body against mine and the storm that sheltered us lull me to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Lord Thornaby is a character from Raffles. The thief that Holmes and Watson were pursuing to York may or may not be the gentleman thief of EW Hornung's stories. (Is. Definitely is)


End file.
